A Will for a Way
by NCR
Summary: Imagine two sixteen year old runaways struggling to survive out on the street. With every challenge thrown at them, they only have each other to depend on. Now imagine those two runaways were Christian and Ana.


**_For anyone who reads my other stories-they will continue to be updated regularly. I will not abandon them even though I am taking on new stories._**

* * *

Cobblestone is beautiful. The most admirable and scenic of all the other ground structures. It makes everything around it look majestic-and somehow important. I've always loved cobblestone, ever since I was six and my mother and father would take me to church, where the ground was completely littered with multi-colored rocks. I remember how much I marveled at the different sizes and tones each individual piece had, and how a person could make something so pretty. It was a big deal for my delicate six year old mind.

Cobblestone is beautiful-but it's a bitch to sleep on.

I rise with a groan, my arm and back killing me. I don't know how I've managed lying on this for six straight hours, but I'm desperate. And depending on how desperate you are-you'll do anything.

I look around me, the air brisk and the sky a light tint of blue. It can't be past six-the sun's just starting to rise. It's perfect timing, just early enough for me to get out of here without being seen, but not too late in the night for danger to still be lurking around in the shadows.

I climb out of the sleeping bag I managed to score a couple weeks ago, which I'm completely thankful for. My last one was stolen by some coked out druggie. It's actually my fault-I should've been paying better attention, but I was sure we were in a safe enough area where nothing would happen. You can't ever be too sure though-nobody's safe out here on the streets.

I roll up my sleeping bag and strap it back on to my backpack. Just to make sure, I check my bag to see if everything's still in here. Who knows what could've happened last night? I was out cold-which is something rare for me. I can never sleep without waking up every hour to make sure no one's around... But I guess being robbed thousands of times by your fellow homeless peers will do that to you.

Everything's still in my bag thankfully. It was never much, but it's all I've got and it's a lot more than what some people out here have. It only takes you a few months on the street to realize the rules of survival, and if you don't use them then you're just a piece of meat for everyone else out here to leech off of... And I was not going to be that piece of meat.

I guess I owe most of what I have to Christian. I would probably be dead-or worse-if it wasn't for him. He taught me everything I need to know and kept me safe. Sometimes, I wonder if I'd still be back _there _if he hadn't of helped me leave.

My stomach curls just thinking about my past. I push it to the farthest recesses of my mind and just focus on getting out of here. I gather my stuff and as silently as possible, make my way from behind the abandoned building. I'm pretty sure none of the other gutter punks found out about this place yet-and I'd like to keep it that way. If any of them found out, they'd all migrate over here and bring their druggies and prostitutes with them.

I make sure I don't leave anything behind and that no one has seen me, before walking down the street where I wait every single day. The sunlight illuminates just enough of the street so I can see where I'm going. I keep my head down, focusing on my feet-it's a bad habit of mine, looking down instead of up. I guess I've just come accustomed to looking down-every time I've looked up I was disappointed with what I saw.

I scuff my feet against the cracked pavement, littered with potholes and weeds. This part of town isn't funded by the government and precious taxpayers-they could give less than two shits about how our roads looked. Sometimes I think they forget we're here-that we're just animals living in the wild, instead of actual human beings.

I guess I shouldn't scuff my feet against the ground, my shoes are already fucked up as it is. They're just simple chucks that I've had forever-but they haven't ripped yet, which is the only thing that matters. They might be dirty and faded, but as long as pebbles aren't getting into them I'm fine.

Everything I have is mostly dirty and faded. I guess I could use a few new clothing items. Depending on how much Christian made last night, maybe he'd let me buy a few things, but I doubt it. I could just hear him now...

_No, Ana, your clothes are fine. We need to eat more than your need to look pretty.._

I scowl. Gosh, he's such an uptight ass sometimes.

I look up from my ratty shoes, noticing that the sky is getting brighter. I guess I should hurry it up-Christian's going to have a heart attack if I'm not there on time. I can't blame him. When somebody out here leaves and doesn't come back-they're probably gone forever.

I remember that one time Christian didn't come to our spot one day. I freaked out-I thought he was dead. It turns out that he just got into a "disagreement" with one of the other con artists he works with. And by "disagreement," I mean they both kicked the shit out of each other over how much money they each should get.

Oh, here's another thing about living on the streets-nobody's money is ever _their_ money.

It's one for none and all for one. It doesn't matter who you are-you could be Jesus fucking Christ and one of the bums here would still rob or swindle you. It just shows how much decency the people I live around have.

Before the sun can completely rise, I scurry towards the alleyway we always meet each other at. The alleyway is on the corner of Smitthin and John, and it's extremely long. There's tons of buildings lined along the interior, most of them abandoned. Basically, all the junkies and dealers hang out here and do their business where the cops aren't going to waste their time looking. People set up camp in some of the abandoned properties, but it get's taken over or someone gets ran out of it in about a week.

No one around here likes to share their space, unless it's with someone they've known for a while. I guess you thought that since we're all desolate with absolutely nothing going for us that we would just live together in harmony.

_Hey, since we're all a bunch of losers, why not let's just live here togther?-it's not like we can find anything better._

Yeah, well, no. It's nothing like that. I once saw a pregnant woman and her two kids get kicked out of one of the buildings by a pimp and his hookers. Christian and I felt bad for her so we let her live with us for a day before we found out she was a meth-head. After that, Christian kicked her out and we never saw her or her kids again. My stomach lurches.

Anyone can guess what probably happened to them.

I walk all the way down to the end of the alleyway-Christian and I's secret hiding spot.

Our building is the very last one on the left, but it's not the building itself that's the hiding spot-it's what's underneath it. We always meet so early so that the people who live in here don't notice us living underneath their "home." Ha! Home is an extremely nice word to call it. Shithole would be a much more apt term.

The addicts who live here don't clean, but of course they don't. I'm pretty sure they're too sky-high to do anything more than stare off into space. It's also kind of an advantage for us. They're too drugged up to notice that below that rug conveniently placed in the middle of their buildings floor is a stairway that leads to a basement.

The basement is actually really nice-well "nice" for a street person's standards. It's not moldy or damp or anything like that-nor is it dusty. It's just enough space for Christian and I to move around and be comfortable. Christian never lets us sleep here though, he says he doesn't feel comfortable with me sleeping with junkie's dwelling just a foot above me. Apparently they're "dangerous", but I think he's just scared that one day I'm going to get hooked on something.

But that day will _never _come.

I enter the door and just like always-there's nobody here. They've all gone out to do God know's what, but I have a feeling it has to do with going out and scoring more illegal substances. I move the rug aside, lifting up the basement door and climbing inside. I move the rug back before I've climbed all the stairs and pulled the door shut again, locking the latch that's on the door. Even if one day they did find out there's a basement down here, they couldn't get in with us inside-we always lock it after we enter.

There's no electricity down here, so we have to use candles. Yuri from the corner shop on Third and Main gives them to us for free. Yuri is such a sweet man, which is rare for any of the people in the vicious city I live in.

Christian's in the corner, counting his earnings from last night I presume. I can see his shadowy outline from the flames of the candles, and even though we're completely piss poor he still looks like a supermodel. It's completely unfair that I look like an _it, _while he can just dally around wearing clothes we got from Goodwill and look like America's Next Top Model.

Even when we were little, Christian was gorgeous. He had these long, dark eyelashes that fanned around his grey eyes, making him look like a doll. His eyes were enchanting, like a sea of liquid metal swimming around in his orbs. Add a full head of copper locks and there you have it: Christian Grey.

Of course when I was little I didn't notice at the time how attractive he was. I just thought that he had cooties and I wanted him as far away from me as possible.

Christian doesn't even look up, too engrossed in the action of counting money to be bothered with my presence.

"Aren't you going to welcome me?" I ask, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

"I did... Silently in my head," he mumbles, still looking down.

It's more than what we usually get, so I guess last night was a good day for conning people. See, Christian is really smart. He's also a conniving little bastard. He can hook people in and completely mislead them into thinking that they're about to receive some huge payday, or make some easy money. His speciality was card games and pawning "valuable" jewelry. Every fool he approached always fell for it, and we always ended up with a couple bucks.

"So how much did you make?"

"I can't count if you keep talking to me."

I roll my eyes.

I sit down next to him and wait until he's done. I distractedly examine my fingernails, which look a mess. They need to be cleaned and trimmed-much like most of my body. There's no shower down here in our hiding spot, but even if there was, the buildings abandoned and I doubt the water would work anyway. Most of the time me and Christian use the showers down at the beach when it's late and no ones around. When we can't get to that and we're really desperate, we even use fast food bathrooms -which I'm not proud of at all.

Actually, I'm not proud of mostly everything I do. Sometimes, I wish that what happened all those years ago happened to someone else. As horrible as that sounds-wishing this life on someone else-it's not my fault that I'm here. I was forced to be here, cruelly stolen and placed in this hell on Earth. I don't deserve this-no one deserves this. But then I think that I probably wouldn't have met Christian, and that makes the life I live a little more... Bearable, because a life without Christian automatically becomes unbearable. He's my best friend..

"One fifty," he says, slapping down the money into my lap.

"Jesus Christ, did you rob all of Detroit?" I marvel, counting the money just to make sure he's right.

"Only the stupid ones."

I count over and over again, but the outcome remains the same. He had to have been working all night to make this, and as I look over and see the dark circles under his eyes, I know that he has.

"Cards or pawning?"

"Both," he admits, a grin on his face.

I hand him back the money, but I can't help but feel a pang of guilt. I really don't contribute anything to our arrangement. I have no job, but it's not like either of us could get an actual one anyway. We're sixteen year old homeless kids-if anyone ever found that out they'd put us in foster care and I'm sure as hell not going back there. Besides, we don't have working papers, so therefore any type of legal job is out of the question.

But Christian has a trade. The only money we have is the money he makes, while I just sit here and do nothing but twiddle my thumbs.

"I feel like an ass," I sigh.

"That's interesting. Please tell me-what do asses feel like?" He says while rummaging around in the small pantry we have down here.

"Like crap. I just sit all day while you work and actually make money so we can survive," I grumble.

He throws a box of cereal at me, which I take eagerly. I haven't eaten since seven last night and I'm starving. He pulls out a package of crackers for himself.

"First of all, I don't work-I just rip people off. Second of all, if I had problem with our arrangement I wouldn't be here," he says over a mouthful of crackers.

His table manners are _great. _

"Well you might not have a problem," I start, "but I do. I hate being one of those people who don't contribute."

"I value your safety over any type of money you could get us. If you work who knows what kind of crazy, unhinged people you could come in contact with?"

"I'm not a baby, Christian. I can take care of myself sometimes, ya know?"

"Key word: Sometimes," he spits back. "If you could survive on your own, do you think I would be here?"

"Jeez, so you only stay because I can't live on my own and not because you enjoy my company? Tell me how you really feel.." I mutter.

"I stay because I _care _that you can't survive on your own. If you were just some random other gutter punk, I wouldn't give you the time of day. Plus," he adds on, "I've spent six whole years of my life with you-You've grown on me," he jokes, bumping my shoulder against his.

Christian and I met when we were ten. We were placed in the same foster home. Our "guardians" (more like abusers) were complete assholes and we only had each other to keep us company. So yeah, Christian's definitely grown on me too.

I bump him back and we finish our food in silence.

"So what's the agenda for today?" I ask, as we switch boxes.

I'm not a big fan of crackers, but it's all we have left.

"For one, I'm thinking more food." I nod my head in agreement, "But... Maybe if there's something left over, we could stop at Goodwill-" My head snaps up.

He rolls his eyes.

"Jesus, Ana, don't have a heart attack," he chides. "I said _if _there's something left over."

"Oh, please can we? I mean, it's not like we're gonna spend one fifty just on food. If we go to Yuri's shop we could get half of it for free. And I'll only spend a little so that we have leftover money to spend for at least a week."

He sighs.

"Fine, I guess you're right," he says, giving up.

"I always am."

* * *

"How do I look?" I ask, placing the skirt against my waist.

"Like a street walker," Christian responds dryly.

I suck my teeth at his negativity. Well, whatever. I was going to buy it anyway. I kept sauntering around the store, looking for clothes that _didn't _seem to used to belong to a sixty-five year old woman, which was a very small selection. Yeah, the clothes were cheap, but that didn't mean they had to look so ugly.

I found a nice pair of jeans on one of the racks. They were cute and looked like they could fit me.

"What do you think of these? Think they'll fit?"

He narrows his eyes. "Yeah, they should."

I add the jeans to my cart and look for a cheap jacket since it's getting colder outside. So far I've got two shirts, two jeans, a skirt, a sweater, and a _very _ugly pair of brown sneakers-but, hey, they'll offer good support. As I notice everything I have I look back to see that Christian hasn't picked anything up. He's just staring at the store entrance.

"Why aren't you getting anything?" I ask over my shoulder as he trails behind me.

"My clothes are fine. Unlike you, I don't dwell too much on my appearance."

I roll my eyes.

"Well, you need something new. Your jeans are turning into high-waters," I observe.

Christian's face puckers in denial. However, when he looks down, the bottom of his jeans actually are starting to rise higher due to him outgrowing them. He purses his lips.

"Shut up," he retorts, but makes his way to the men's section. "Oh, and watch that guy over there. He keeps looking at us." He points at a sketchy guy with a grey hoodie on before he leaves.

The guy's face is covered in open sores-either he has a nasty rash or he's a meth head for sure. Looking at him gives me the chills. How could someone ruin their lives with that stuff? It just didn't make sense to me.

I thought maybe Christian was being just paranoid, but it turns out the guy _was_ actually staring at us-well, just me now since Christian left. I hurry up and grab the cheapest jacket I could find (despite the fact that it was absolutely horrid looking) so I could get back to Christian. I know I told him I could survive on my own an hour ago but that's complete bullshit. If Christian's not around I don't ever feel safe.

"That guy is giving me the creeps, can we please get out of here?" I whisper to Christian once I find him.

"Turn around," he demands.

I furrow my eyebrows, but comply anyway.

"Here, take this money and go pay. I'll meet you by the door."

"What was the point of me turning around?" I ask, taking the money.

"I don't want him to see how much money we have. He'll probably try to rob us to get some more glass."

I nod. He's probably right. Christian is always one step ahead when it comes to these things. We split up and I wait as the cashier rings up our stuff. I frown as I see that Christian only got one pair of jeans and a coat. It's like _I _spend more of the money he earns than he does.

I feel even guiltier as the total pops up on the screen. I just blew twenty dollars that could've gotten us food for another week. I pay the lady anyway and meet Christian by the door. As I pass by the man with the hoodie, my heart races. Ever since I was put into the system I've been weary of men-and with good reason. Add six months of living on the streets and my fear has grown. Now, I'm weary of everyone-especially the druggies.

"How much?" Christian asks as I near him.

"Twenty," I whisper, not wanting that guy to hear us.

It's rare for any homeless person to carry more than five dollars at a time, and any who do automatically get jumped. Which is why we definitely have to be more careful than usual to make sure that nobody get's suspicious of us.

Christian nods and takes my hand, leading us out of the store. After anything we buy, we automatically take our stuff back to our basement. You can't afford to carry anything of value on the streets for too long or people will start to target you. We take the back way, not wanting anyone around to see our bags.

Halfway there Christian stops.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"We're being followed," he grits through his teeth.

I turn around but don't see anyone.

"No, we're not," I argue.

Christian jerks his head to the left, gesturing to a dark corner on the street. As I strain my eyes, I'm just able to see the faint outline of a body.. And a grey hoodie.

It's the same guy from the store.

"Whatever you want, you can just come out and say it," Christian calls out to the man.

It takes a moment, but soon the guy emerges from the corner. He picks at the sores on his face, blood prickling from reopening a scab that just recently formed.

My stomach roils and I huddle closer to Christian.

"I want your money," he states, his voice gruff.

"We don't have any-now stop following us," Christian growls, glaring at him as he pulls us away from the mystery man.

Christian's only sixteen, but he has this look that can intimidate anyone. I remember one of our foster parent's invited one of their sleazy friends over who kept harassing me. Christian just gave him one look and the guy never bothered me again.

I think that in his look it conveys how secretly crazy Christian is. I mean he's not one of those kooks that hears voices, but Christian definitely has a temper. A temper that causes him to never back down from a fight-even when I sometimes want him to. I've never seen him lose a fight, though... And Christian's fought a lot of people.

"I know you're living in the basement underneath one of the druggies' house," the man yells.

Christian and I stop cold. How the hell could he know that? We've made sure that no one was around every time we left and entered our basement. That's the only home we have and I can't let this strung out wino just jeopardize that.

"Just give him the money," I whisper to Christian.

Money we can make again, but I doubt we'll find something as safe and comfortable as our basement.

"What street?" Christian asks.

Both I and the methhead stare blankly at him.

"What?" The man asks.

"What street is the house we live under on?" He asks, challenging him.

The man still looks confused.

"Is it Second and Main, Water street, Main street, John and Jacobs?" Christian says, a mocking tone in his voice. "Or maybe it's none of those. Hell, you wouldn't even know, would you, since your blasted out of your fucking mind! Do you even remember what you saw? How do you know those people were us? Or maybe you just heard it from someone else. But how do you know they didn't make it up? How do you know this is even real, or if you're just hallucinating? Or dreaming? Oh, that's right... You can't fucking know! You can't tell the difference between reality and fantasy because you're a piece of shit druggie!" Christian yells, standing right in front of the man's face, his eyes blazing and chest heaving.

The man steps back, struggling to come up with something to say.

"Don't you ever.. And I mean _ever _bother us again," Christian growls.

The man hurries the opposite way, putting as much distance between us as he can. Christian grabs my hand again, pulling us along.

"Are you okay?" I ask, noticing how furious he is.

"I'm fine," he says. "I just hate addicts."

* * *

**_Boring start, but trust me it'll get juicier. Leave your thoughts since they are very much appreciated._**

**_P.S. A gutter punk and wino are just words used to convey a homeless/low class person. Glass is also a street name for meth._**


End file.
